“Decidedly, that boy is in my way,” said John Wade to himself.  “I must manage to get rid of him, and that speedily, or my infatuated uncle will be adopting him.”

“Of what disease did George’s boy die, John?” asked Mr. Wharton.

“A sudden fever.”

“I wish I could have seen him before he died.  But I returned only to find both son and grandson gone.  I had only the sad satisfaction of seeing his grave.”

“Yes, he was buried in the family lot at Greenwood, five days before you reached home.”

“When I see men of my own age, surrounded by children and grandchildren, it makes me almost envious,” said Mr. Wharton, sadly.  “I declare to you, John, since that boy has been with me, I have felt happier and more cheerful than for years.”

“That boy again!” muttered John to himself.  “I begin to hate the young cub, but I mustn’t show it.  My first work will be to separate him from my uncle.  That will require consideration.  I wonder whether the boy knows that he is not Fowler’s son?  I must find out.  If he does, and should happen to mention it in my uncle’s presence, it might awaken suspicions in his mind.  I must interview the boy, and find out what I can.  To enlist his confidence, I must assume a friendly manner.”

In furtherance of this determination, John Wade greeted our hero very cordially the next evening, when they met, a little to Frank’s surprise.

When the reading terminated, John Wade said, carelessly: 

“I believe, uncle, I will go out for a walk.  I think I shall be better for it.  In what direction are you going, Frank?”

“Down Sixth Avenue, sir.”

“Very good; I will walk along with you.”

Frank and his companion walked toward Sixth Avenue.

“My uncle tells me you have a sister to support,” said Wade, opening the conversation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Does your sister resemble you?” asked John Wade.

“No, sir! but that is not surprising, for——­”

“Why is it not surprising?”

Frank hesitated.

“You were about to assign some reason.”

“It is a secret,” said our hero, slowly; “that is, has been a secret, but I don’t know why I should conceal it.  Grace is not my sister.  She is Mrs. Fowler’s daughter, but I am not her son.  I will tell you the story.”

That story Frank told as briefly as possible.  John Wade listened to it with secret alarm.

“It is a strange story,” he said.  “Do you not feel a strong desire to learn your true parentage?”

“Yes, sir.  I don’t know, but I feel as if I should some day meet the man who gave me into Mrs. Fowler’s charge.”

“You have met him, but it is lucky you don’t suspect it,” thought John Wade.

“I am glad you told me this story,” said he, aloud.

“It is quite romantic.  I may be able to help you in your search.  But let me advise you to tell no one else at present.  No doubt there are parties interested in keeping the secret of your birth from you.  You must move cautiously, and your chance of solving the mystery will be improved.”